In The Arms of a Cardigan

I was a very sensitive kid. Some if it was and is just part of my personality, other parts of it were learned (we’ll get to that blog post a little further along). Things that others would find “emotionally innocuous” tended to affect me in a deep way. When I was about 7 or so, my parents took the family to the CNE. If you’re a kid who grew up in southern Ontario, you went there many times and if you’re young enough you even saw the Blue Jays play there at the Exhibition Stadium before the SkyDome was built.  This particular day we did it all. We saw the Jays play, we went to “The EX” and rode all the rides. Both the hot dog and popsicle stands saw good business from the five of us that day. It must have been one of the cooler summer days because my mum wore a sweater. It was this amazing butter yellow colour and it was my favourite on her. At some point she had taken it off when it got warmer and was carrying it with her. Inevitably, she left it on the seat of one of the rides and didn’t notice until later when we were leaving. She went to an info kiosk to see if there was a lost and found.  Perhaps someone had seen it and dropped it off. Sadly (well mostly for me) it was not found. So, as any grown, pragmatic human would do, my mother shrugged it off and decided it was not the end of the world and we proceeded to leave. As we passed thru the gates, I felt the lump in my throat. As we walked to the minivan, I couldn’t hold back the tears. Almost immediately my parents asked me what was wrong, and I couldn’t speak. Parental concern turned to annoyance when they began to chide me for what seemed like ungratefulness. Didn’t we just have a nice day? Didn’t we do ALL the fun things and eat all the treats and see the BEST BASEBALL TEAM IN THE WORLD play? I nodded, still silently crying. Weren’t there children in less fortunate places in the world who would never get to do something so wonderful? Again, I nodded. But all I could think about was my mother’s sweater. Lying in a pile on a seat. Discarded and alone. That sunny yellow sweater, the colour of innocence and happiness abandoned somewhere in the park and we were just going to leave it behind. If it had been in the late 90’s I would have had “In The Arms of an Angel” playing in the background of my head. The image of the sweater fading into my black and white memory. I think I managed to bubble out over my tears something like “I’m sad for Mummy’s sweater.” I can only imagine the look my parents must have exchanged but things quickly switched gears. Then it became this quest to comfort me and assure me the sweater was ok and that some other family would find it and take it home but this only seemed more horrific in my mind. Besides, my mother was (and still is) the most beautiful woman in the world.  As IF some other person could rock that butter yellow cardigan better than her. It was unfair. It was heartbreaking. It was only the beginning of many instances where my parents had to talk me down from the proverbial ledge about really random things I had attached intense emotions to.

This was supposed to be an anecdote, but it’s taken up much of this blog post already.  My point (I think) is I feel like my kid self now. And my mother’s sweater is somehow my purpose, my dreams and hopes. My reason. And it feels like it’s gone forever. Left on the seat of a roller coaster to be picked up by someone else.  And everyone in my life (if they’re still around) are like my hapless parents trying to console me over what must seem like nothing. And I end up feeling silly, ungrateful and heartbroken.

Oh well, tune in next week where I talk about my dog.